


So I try to talk refined for fear that you find out (How I'm imaginin' you)

by CaffeineChic



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), F/M, First Kiss, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), aziraphale is a clever bastard, demon disaster, idiots to lovers, tags give me anxiety
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-23
Updated: 2019-11-23
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:34:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21533782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaffeineChic/pseuds/CaffeineChic
Summary: “Will you teach me how to drive?”Crowley didn’t miss a beat -- “Absolutely not.”“Crowley.” Aziraphale’s incredulity was unmistakable. He could hardly be blamed for it -- when had Crowley ever denied him before?
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 45
Kudos: 248





	So I try to talk refined for fear that you find out (How I'm imaginin' you)

“Will you teach me how to drive?”

Crowley didn’t miss a beat -- “Absolutely not.”

“ _Crowley._ ” Aziraphale’s incredulity was unmistakable. He could hardly be blamed for it -- when had Crowley ever denied him before?

“No. No way, angel. You’d drive under the speed limit all the time and stop for every stupid human that even thinks about walking into the road. And you’d show up _on time_ .” Crowley said _on time_ like it caused a particularly bad taste in his mouth. On time. Really. How embarrassing.

He put his foot down, accelerating away from the moment. (And about 30 miles above this particular road’s speed limit.)

Lies lies lies. All of them. 

(White lies unbecoming of a demon -- Aziraphale _would_ do everything Crowley had described, it just wasn’t an actual problem. 

Except for the punctuality. That was unquestionably ridiculous.)

Words that he couldn’t say battered and thrashed, palpitating in a heart that should have been purely ornamental, hammering against the walls, hard enough to bruise. His chest was a contusion of emotion.

(His heart didn’t need to beat.

It didn’t need to feel, either.

It did both.

Fervently.)

Aziraphale -- driving. 

Decorative blood congealed in cosmetic veins. His whole body felt blackened and marred.

“You’d crash the car in under a week,” is what he says, but is not even close to what he means.

In 6000 years he had never not known Aziraphale to get distracted by something new, or old, or twinkling. The last thing he needed was for Aziraphale to spot a new cafe and accidentally drive the car into it. Crowley didn’t think Heaven would readily hand out a new body to a discorporated retired angel.

“You’re worried about the car.”

“Of course.” He lied. 

(Well -- he _did_ love the Bentley, just not as much as he...

No, steer clear from that. He accelerated again, took a corner at a truly unreasonable speed.

Avoid. Evade. Flee.

He was good at fleeing.)

“Well I can hardly use you as my personal chauffeur for the next millenia.”

He braked, hard -- slowed to an almost legal limit.

“Why not?” Crowley was genuinely confused now. “Where are you going?”

(Where are you going without me?

Where are you going that I’m not going?

Where do I exist without you?)

And that was the crux of it really. Where on this earth was Aziraphale going that Crowley wouldn’t take him. Or simply follow him. And that just seemed wasteful in terms of their carbon footprint -- arriving separately. They _had_ sworn their allegiance to the planet, its longevity was obviously a priority. They clearly had to do their part, right? Stick together on it?. So he was very concerned about their carbon footprint. 

And the being separated bit. 

“Book fairs.” 

Crowley fairly sagged with relief. 

“I’ll take you to book fairs, angel.” 

“You hate books _and_ fairs, my dear.”

“I like _you_ , ya pillock, I’ll take you wherever you want to go.” 

Well now. Wasn’t that a thing to have said out loud. (Crowley vaguely wondered if he should manifest a hole in the ground to drive himself into.) Through sheer force of will he buried a mortified groan in the depths of his bones.

“That’s very -- ”

(Crowley heard every four letter word the Angel was valiantly trying not to use.

Nice.

Kind.

Good.

He swerved the car again, hoping to avoid all of them.)

“Don’t.” 

He was being foolish. Maybe. He wasn’t _sure._ He knew how he felt. He suspected he even knew how Aziraphale felt. He just wasn’t sure how Aziraphale felt about feeling it. 

The angel cleared his throat. Once. Twice. 

“You’ll take me to book fairs and you’ll...”

“Wait. I’ll wait for you.”

(To catch up.

To be ready.

To tell me it’s time.)

Crowley thought he caught the quirk of a smile on his face. He couldn’t look at Aziraphale directly right now -- it would burn him up. Aziraphale shuffled in his seat -- squirmed, then settled. Crowley recognised the move -- the angel had made his mind up about something. 

“What if you’re busy, dear?”

“Won’t be.” (All my days are yours.)

“And if it’s far?”

“Don’t care.” (I care about you.)

His words were too eager, too reckless. He couldn’t stop them. 

He was giving himself away. (He’d been doing it for 6000 years.)

“Cro--” 

He cut ahead, shrugging his hands from the wheel “Look -- you like book fairs. I like driving.” 

(Something you like.

Something I like.

I like you so much.)

His heart beat.

And beat.

And beat.

And battered.

A maelstrom of calamity, twisting and jarring at intervals. He was going to run them off the road. He gripped the wheel again, tightened a hand around the gearstick. He needed to be careful -- with the car, with his words, with Aziraphale. He’d undo them both before they began. The wrong syllable, the wrong timing -- was it him, was he just _wrong?_

He didn’t know how to do this -- having this much devotion stirring inside wasn’t new, this wasn’t a lightning strike of knowledge...this was different, something he’d entombed deep deep deep away. The possibility that maybe maybe maybe the feeling wasn’t unmatched. He wasn’t built for aspirations. His bones weren’t built to hold hope. It was going to hollow him out.

The hope was fucking insidious. 

Maybe. 

Maybe. 

Maybe. 

The hope was going to kill him.

That or the hand that was now curling around his on the gearstick. 

Aziraphale was decidedly not looking at him, but was very definitely slotting his fingers through Crowley’s. 

(He latched, he tethered, he squeezed.

Stay stay stay.)

“Aziraphale...” He didn’t know what he was going to say but he knew he knew he knew -- the words were coming, all of them, mauling their way out his body. They were going to leave him a ruin. 

“Pull the car over, please.”

Oh he’d done it now, Aziraphale wanted out -- to walk or miracle himself back home rather than spend another second with him. He’d fucked the whole thing up and all he’d uttered was the angel’s name. 

“Wait -- why -- we’re not anywhere.” (Desperate desperate desperate -- he could taste it all over his tongue. He was going to choke on his own need.)

“We’re exactly where we need to be, dearest. I’d very much like to kiss you and I can’t do that while you’re driving.”

Jesus fucking Christ.

“Ngk. Right. Yeah. Ok”.

Aziraphale had said it like he hadn’t just undone the whole world, hadn’t just pulled reality apart and reshaped it.

Crowley slowed the car. Changed gears. Indicated. He let a car pull out. He parked following every rule of the road he had ever known enough to ignore. 

His heart was going to pummel its way out of his chest.

Crowley turned off the engine.

(Beat.

Beat.

Beat.)

Aziraphale’s thumb was making slow slow slow circles on the back of Crowley’s hand. 

“You’re… amenable, yes?”

That dragged his attention around to finally look the angel in the face. 

“What?”

“To kissing? Me. Specifically. Or generally, I suppose. I hadn’t thought to ask previously. Obviously if its not of interest to you I shall never mention it again. Though I had dared to hope….”

Aziraphale had fully started to ramble -- a soliloquy that Crowley could no longer hear. The blood in his ears was deafening. His heart was working so hard (his heart had always been working hard.) 

His own thoughts were looping, the hope the hope the hope was hardening into something tangible. 

_Aziraphale wanted to kiss him Aziraphale wanted to kiss him what the fuck was happening what world was this Aziraphale wanted to kiss him Aziraphale wanted to kiss him._

_Aziraphale_

_Aziraphale_

_Aziraphale_

(Beat.

Beat.

Beat.

Breakthrough.)

“Aziraphale.”

“Yes?”

“Yes.”

“Oh. Good.”

“Good.”

Crowley nodded as though that settled the whole thing. 

And then. 

(And then and then and then and then 

There is hope

Reshaping reshaping reshaping

Into reality)

Aziraphale’s mouth was on his. Aziraphale’s hand was in his hair. Aziraphale was pressed against him.

Aziraphale.

And suddenly his heart was no longer trying to escape his paperthin chest, it was no longer trying to break his bones, to leave him behind. 

He surged against the angel, deepened the kiss and drew a moan from one of them, both of them, again again again. Over and over and over. He licked his way into Aziraphale’s mouth, reached to pull at his collar, drag him closer closer closer. 

Amenable. He was fucking amenable. 

His heart steadied, paced, he felt like he had room under his ribs again. 

And then Aziraphale ran his thumb against the demon’s jaw with more tenderness than Crowley knew how to process -- and he realised he was wrong -- there was no more room, no more empty space inside him, Aziraphale was filling it up. 

It took every ounce of restraint he could muster to not climb directly into the angel’s lap and miracle the seats back. 

(Though if the way Aziraphale was currently nipping at Crowley’s bottom lip was any indication, the restraint was largely unnecessary.)

They couldn’t keep at this forever. (Well -- they _could_.) Eventually the superfluous habit of breathing eased them apart. 

Aziraphale’s hand slowly retreated from Crowley’s face, his nerves lighting up under the slow drag of the angel’s fingertips. 

“The Bloomsbury book fair, next week.” It wasn’t a question. 

“What? Yeah. What?” Crowley felt like his brain had short-circuited somewhere around the point Aziraphale had run his tongue along his teeth, and the power hadn’t fully come back online yet.

Aziraphale settled back in his seat, tugged his waistcoat back into place, and smiled at him. “You’ll escort me, my dear?” 

Crowley blinked. Neurons started to fire again.

“You could walk there -- from the shop.”

“ _We_ could.” Aziraphale was still smiling at him. He looked down as Aziraphale laced their fingers together again. 

“We...could.” (Do anything, be anything.)

(We could.

We could.

We could.

We will. We are. We always have been.)

“That’s settled then, my dear.”

Fucking hell -- heaven -- something. 

_Teach him to drive? Bastard. Absolutely, brilliant bastard. Didn’t need a single lesson in getting where he wanted to be._

He was done for. (Ardently, intently, willingly.)

He cast about at the reality that had crystallized around him. Aziraphale, by his side. Aziraphale’s hand in his. 

Aziraphale 

Aziraphale 

Aziraphale 

He breathed. His heart...

(Beat

Beat

Beat)

“Home, angel?”

Azirapahle nodded, gripped his hand tighter. 

He started the car. Home.

**Author's Note:**

> Title knicked from Hozier's "Talk"
> 
> Well this is the longest fic I've written in a good long while, and also my favourite. So I feel good about posting it on my wedding anniversary :D
> 
> [CaffeineChic on Tumblr](http://caffeinechic.tumblr.com)


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